Hitching up the strap of my camera bag, I strode towards the clubhouse and tried the door handle. Locked. I glared at it. You idiot, I thought. Of course the place was locked. I’d told Bram to make sure the items were secured every night. Even the windows were shut tight. There was no way in or out.

Sighing, I pulled out my phone and found Bram’s number. I was about to dial when a sudden movement inside caught my eye. Someone was sliding open one of the windows – a girl with long blue hair the same shade as a kingfisher’s crest. I watched her climb up and drop onto the gravel, her scuffed boots stirring up the dust. The bag she’d slung across her back seemed bottom-heavy, in danger of slipping. She yanked it up higher on her shoulder and I heard the unmistakable rattling slosh of liquid-filled cans.

Dusting herself off, she turned and saw me watching. She started guiltily, looked around to see if I was alone, then drew herself up.

‘Do I know you?’

She was wearing a black, home-dyed jumper and a dark skirt. Beneath the dark eyeliner drawn crookedly across her pale skin, her eyes were a deep, piercing blue that matched her azure hair.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Unless you’re a figment of my imagination.’

She frowned then laughed. ‘You must be the Australian lady. I can tell from your weird accent.’ She shifted her bag. ‘I’m Anneke.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said. ‘I’m Jo. Does your dad know where you are? Don’t you have school?’

She made a face. ‘It’s the holidays. No classes. I was picking up something I left behind the other day. Bram always leaves one window open a crack in case of emergencies.’

A truck rolled past, the driver crunching the gears.

‘Can I ask you for a favour?’ I said. ‘I need to get inside the clubhouse. Reckon you could scoot back inside and open the door for me?’

Anneke lifted her dimpled chin. I could see her weighing up the advantages and disadvantages of helping me. She was probably working out which option would annoy her father more. The tension between them sparked and hummed, crackling with its own force-field.

‘If you help me,’ I said, ‘I’ll show you how to dye that jumper properly.’

She eyed me suspiciously. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘for starters, if you use a bigger saucepan next time, you won’t get such a splotchy result. You’ll be giving the dye a chance to settle into the fabric nice and evenly. And you could probably let the clothes stay in a bit longer. I’d leave a cotton jumper like that in for no less than an hour and a half, minimum. It helps if you have a friend. I imagine that’s how witches did it back in the old days. When they got tired of stirring their magical potions, they asked one of their coven-sisters to take over so they could give their arms a rest.’